


Lily's Child

by Shmiggles



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Depression, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 06:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20773691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shmiggles/pseuds/Shmiggles
Summary: Severus Snape lives through 1 September, 1991, and sees the current purpose of his life for the first time.





	Lily's Child

Severus awoke, but didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t need to: as soon as he returned to consciousness, he knew where he was. The first breath of wakefulness had filled his nostrils with the cold, clammy odour of the dungeons of Hogwarts Castle: Severus had spent the night in his private rooms.

He tried to spend as little time here: he only returned to the castle the day before term was to start; he had spent the previous night in the house he had inherited from his parents in Spinner’s End. The castle was a psychic prison of largely his own construction: every moment he spent here, he was ensnared in a web of memories and regrets. Spinner’s End offered little relief, however: his parents’ home gave him much the same torment. Severus had two places to rest his head, but felt completely homeless.

Severus turned over, further entangling his legs in the bed linens, and struggled from his bed. It was the first day of September; there was little hope that he could spend the day in solitude, summoning meals by way of the house elves, for the students would be arriving in the afternoon. No, there was work to be done, and appearances to be made.

Severus stumbled his way into his bathroom, blearily opening his eyes as he did so. He focused his mind on the task in hand as he relieved himself into the lavatory: it wouldn’t do to have the house elves gossiping that the Potions Master couldn’t point his todger at a toilet. Having assuaged that particular concern, Severus let his mind descend back into vagueness as he groped at the taps and stepped into the shower.

The hot water did little to clear the fog within Severus’ head: what chance did mere water stand against a decade of stagnation and a failure of a life?

He decided, as he so often did, that there was little to be gained in trying to wash the oil from his hair; his scalp seemed to exude the stuff so rapidly that it was entirely replenished by the time he’d finished drying it. Severus washed himself quickly, not even noticing the faded and fading scar that emblazoned his arm. He stepped out of the shower, and waited, wand in hand, as his towel, razor, and toothbrush danced about him, preparing him for the day ahead. He stepped back into his bedchamber and began to dress.

As usual, he began with undergarments. These were more a political choice than anything else: his mother had refused to wear anything under her robes, as a nod to her pureblood upbringing; his father had insisted that he wear them, because not to do so was, he felt, strange.

Severus had worn underwear as a child, but at some point, he had decided—_had been convinced_, a hopeful voice in his head interjected—that he no longer ought to wear them. The habit had resurfaced the day after he had pledged his allegiance to Albus Dumbledore.

Clad only in his white underpants, undershirt, and black socks, Severus reached for a shirt. The cool, pressed cotton was a stark contrast to the warmer weave of his undergarments. There was little need for collar stays; the house elves had charmed the collar stiff. Severus shivered slightly as he pulled the sleeve over his arms, and began to methodically fasten the buttons. The band collar tightened about his neck, Severus took his wand from where it lay on the bed and waved it lazily at the box on his bedside table; the two black silk knots rose from it and made their way through the buttonholes in his French cuffs.

Next, naturally, were the trousers: black wool, of course. Another flick of his wand had the braces—black with silver fastenings—floating from the chest of drawers and attaching themselves to the buttons at the rear of the trousers. Severus sat on his bed to pull the trousers on, and when he stood, it was another simple wand movement that fastened the braces at the front. The braces were another Muggle affectation, but in this case, one that he had adopted at the end of his fifth year at Hogwarts. The threat that they had protected him from was long gone, but they tied him to that fateful day, when he set out on the journey that eventually led him here.

Shoes were the obvious successor to the trousers. Plain, black Oxford shoes, with leather soles for that authoritative _clack_ against the stone floors of the castle. Again, it was the wand that summoned and positioned the shoe horn, and tied the laces.

It was time for the cassock. Many pureblood wizards wore cassocks; only Severus wore them with twenty-one buttons. Mr. Twilfitt had raised an enquiring eyebrow when Severus had specified that requirement all those years ago; now, it was Severus usual order, other than the shirts.

Lily had been twenty-one when she died.

Severus donned the cassock by hand, his deft fingers pushing each of the twenty-one buttons through its hole. The weight of the heavy wool garment resting on his shoulders was increased by the open-fronted robe.

A quick run of the comb through his hair—a distinct, but not perfect centre part neatened up his long, oily locks—had Severus ready—in body, if not spirit—for the day. The hat remained on its hook: Severus would not be leaving the castle today.

Leaving his chambers, Severus swept through the corridors up to the Great Hall for breakfast. He was not in any particular hurry, but he strode determinedly anyway, letting the robe billow behind him. It was good to get back into the habit of the dramatic entrance, of always moving in such a way as to clearly communicate some purpose and intent.

There were many ways of dealing with students, of getting the best out of them, of keeping them in line. Severus was only concerned with the latter. The reason for this was simple: Severus didn’t _want_ to teach.

‘Morning,’ Pomona said cheerily over a full English breakfast, as Severus sat down at the high table.

Severus nodded in a curt reply. Entirely unfazed by this now customary interaction, Pomona carried on eating, and chatting wih Poppy Pomfrey.

He looked at the food laid out on the table. The fact that only the school staff were present did not reduce the range of food prepared by the house elves. Severus poured himself a cup of tea—strong, black, no sugar—took two slices of toast, and began to cover them with butter and Marmite.

Severus’ colleagues knew better than to engage him in conversation. Another day, perhaps, they might try to strike up a conversation about a recent development in potion-brewing, or needle him about his treatment of students, or even—heaven forbid—try to raise a _pastoral concern_ with him. But today was the first day of term, and Severus was well known to be particularly abrasive on the day that the students made their return from their summer holidays.

Having broken his fast, Severus nodded to Minerva McGonagall—the Headmaster, it seemed, had already eaten and departed—rose from his seat, and returned to the welcome solitude of his office.

Sitting at his desk, Severus’ first task was to look at which students had earned themselves the requisite result of Outstanding for admission to his N.E.W.T. class. His colleagues objected to his refusal to teach any but the very best students at that level, but Severus didn’t care, for even this was a concession. When Severus Snape had sworn his allegiance to Albus Dumbledore in a desperate effort to save the life of Lily Evans—he could never think of her as Lily Potter—he’d never suspected that he would become an indentured employee of Dumbledore’s school.

As he had every year, Severus had made his annual plea to be given the Defence Against the Dark Arts post, and as he had every year, Dumbledore had refused. The other teachers were wary of this little ritual; they were well aware of his past as a Death Eater, and made little effort to hide their suspicions regarding his motivations. They couldn’t be more wrong: Severus’ real interest in the position originated in a minor discretion of the Dark Lord’s, when he had let slip that he had cursed that specific teaching post at Hogwarts. If only Severus could find himself teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts, he might find himself free of Hogwarts, or, he scarcely dared hope, free of his entire existence forever.

Having gleaned the customary despair from the list of students whom he would have to suffer at N.E.W.T. level, Severus turned his attention to the list of the new first-years. There was little to be learned from this list; all of these children were unknown to him, and because they attended their first-year classes in their houses, he didn’t even know which students would be grouped together. However, there were certain surnames of which he had to be wary, for some of the Death Eaters had managed to escape sentence, and now had children attending the school.

The names were not especially interesting; there was a Longbottom who would surely follow in his parents’ footsteps to become a warrior for everything that Severus had once fought against; the Malfoy boy, who would inevitably engage in clumsy attempts to curry favour, much like his father. . .

Severus suddenly found himself standing. No, it couldn’t be—but it was, as clear as day, written on the sheet of parchment: _Harry Potter_.

Lily’s child was coming to Hogwarts.

He fell back into his chair. Lily’s child. . . Would he have Lily’s musical laugh, her joyous smile? Her vibrant hair, her iridiscent eyes? Her zest for life, her passion for justice?

He was lost in memories, of a beautiful girl who had injected colour into his drab childhood, who had listened so rapturously to his every word about magic and its world, who had made him feel wanted and valued. . .

They were memories of a beautiful girl whom he’d failed and betrayed. He’d played a dangerous game, trying to win the favour of powerful and well-connected members of his house while trying to win the heart of the love of his life, and he’d played it badly. He’d lost the greater of those prizes, and his desperate attempts to save it—her—had cost him his regard for the other.

All that he had left now was this, this office, this job, and all its memories of all that he’d done wrong. But soon, he’d have something else; he’d have Lily’s child, to watch over and protect, as he slowly but inexorably walked towards the destiny that Severus had inadvertantly helped to assign to him.

* * *

The evening meal found Severus back at the high table in the Great Hall, which was now filled with the excited chattering of hundreds of adolescent witches and wizards, no doubt eagerly telling each other of the mindless pastimes of their summer. Severus made a half-hearted attempt not to look _too_ dismissive of the whole affair.

The doors to the hall opened, and Minerva McGonagall led the frightened and awed first-years to the front. Without letting his interest become visible, Severus tried to spot Lily’s son amongst the forty or so first-years in their plain black robes, but he couldn’t spot any features of Lily’s: her shining red hair, her deep green eyes, her delicate nose. . .

It ought to have been easier to identify him as they approached the high table, but unfortunately for Severuis, they formed a huddle facing the rest of the student body, while Minerva explained the Sorting Ceremony to them.

He waited and listened as the familiar ritual began, letting the familiar old names wash over him as much as the traditional houses to which they were assigned: Longbottom to Gryffindor, as expected; Malfoy to Slytherin, as expected—

‘Potter, Harry!’

Severus let his curiosity get the better of him, and strained to see over the heads of the standing first-years, but he couldn’t see the boy. The seconds stretched on—what was the complication with Lily’s boy?

‘GRYFFINDOR!’

Of course. He was Lily’s child, after all.

Of course, it was the Boy Who Lived who received the most thunderous and enthusiastic round of applause—Severus could hear those appalling Weasley twins repeatedly bellowing, ‘We got Potter!’ Still, Severus could not see the boy.

Once the ovation had died down, the sorting continued, but while the huddle of first years thinned and contracted, Severus was still unable to see Lily’s child. Finally, it was all over; Dumbledore stood and said something so incomprehensibly eccentric it verged on outright senility, and the food appeared.

Severus served himself a modest selection—Cumberland sausages, some mashed potatoes, some boiled peas and carrots—and let his eyes wander over the Gryffindor table. He quickly found ten new first-years at the end nearest him.

He searched their faces for the merest hint of Lily—and then it happened.

Severus froze in shock. James Potter’s face stared up at him: the same thin features, the same wild hair, possibly even the same pair of glasses.

_How dare he!_ How dare James Potter bespoil the only living proof of Lily’s existence! How so very like him it was, to completely dominate anything and everything he could, to leave no trace of Lily’s delicacy and subtlety behind. All Severus could see was a face that had tormented him, that had jeered at his background and his talents, that had echoed the persecution that had followed him everywhere he went in Spinner’s End.

Severus was so incensed he didn’t notice the dull ache that blossomed under the old tattoo in the moment that he made eye contact with the Potter boy. He wanted to scream, to shout, to hurl abuse and rage against fate, against destiny, against everything in the world that conspired against him to make it his personal hell.

He was pulled back to reality, to his present situation, to his need to maintain a sense of decorum and propriety, by that bumbling idiot Quirrell, who wanted to know whether he’d like some Yorkshire puddings.

Severus barely managed not to snarl at him to go fuck himself.


End file.
